Unrequited Love
by gallifyres
Summary: The Ice Man has, for many years, stayed true to Irene Adler's nickname and remained cold to the core, people think. But that's before he accidentally reveals to his little brother exactly who has lit a match and turned ice in to a fire in his heart. Mythea, if you like.
1. Spilled Secrets

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing from Sherlock or its creators.**_

 _ **Enjoy this little Mythea drabble, with Sherlock thrown in for good measure.**_

 **Unrequited Love**

 _ **Spilled Secrets**_

Sherlock thought back to the first time that he met John Watson. He'd gone to Mycroft immediately.

"I've met someone."

Mycroft had stood up from his chair, gently putting the beloved umbrella into the crook of his elbow.

"As I have said countless times, maybe once too many, **caring is not an advantage,** brother mine. Do not let emotion cloud your better judgement. Don't expect him to love you back."

Sherlock leaned back into his chair, legs crossed, not even bothering to ask his brother how he knew that _someone_ was a _he_.

"How would you, of all people, know that? You with your… ways, running around like you're the King of England, like you could give less damns about who you hurt, like you don't give a single bloody _anything_ about me."

He positively throws away the words, pushing them out of his mouth, coating each syllable with venom.

"I'll bet that you don't care about **anyone**. You never have, never will. Guess you've really taken that maxim to heart."

At these words, Mycroft Holmes, epitome of the British Government, stared up at his younger brother. For a single moment in time, Sherlock saw the hurt and anguish clearly etched into every area of his brother's face. He could see Mycroft's normally steely and icy exterior shatter in his eyes, and immediately regretted the words that had just left his lips.

The one second of emotion allowed Sherlock to make a deduction. A few, to be precise.

"You do care," he realized, slightly ashamed of what he had said to Mycroft.

Mycroft inwardly cursed himself for not keeping his tells in check.

"You care about… about me. And… there's more than one. Someone who isn't Father or Mummy or family."

 _No hiding it now,_ Mycroft joked to himself without a trace of humour. _Not when your dear brother is a genius detective. He's also a sociopath with no manners and could care less if he blurted it out to the whole Diogenes Club._

 _Not that they'd react, of course,_ he added as an afterthought.

The elder Holmes quickly glanced at the door behind Sherlock, where, unbeknownst to Mycroft and his brother, his personal assistant lurked, eavesdropping on the British government and the world's only consulting detective.

"It's her, isn't it?" asked Sherlock.

"Who?" gulped Mycroft, already knowing that he couldn't hide any longer.

"Her. Your PA. She goes by… Anthea, am I correct?"

The dumbfounded, embarrassed, and frustrated expression on Mycroft's face would have made his younger sibling laugh under different circumstances.

"And you worry she doesn't love you back."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. Mycroft knew that he was right; there was no use now denying it. Not when it was obvious enough.

"Yes… yes, brother," he coughed out, clearing his throat more and louder than was really necessary.

"And you would do well not to utter one word of this conversation to another person, Willi-I mean, Sherlock. I cannot have Anthea knowing that I… care for her, for lack of better words. I am always so worried during our missions, be it political or actually requiring legwork, that something terrible will happen… and that I will perpetually push the blame upon myself. It's easier."

The unspoken words hung between them.

 ** _It's easier - pretending not to care._**

The conversation trailed off into a deafening (and quite awkward) silence, which was ended by Sherlock exiting the office, wrapping his scarf (which Mycroft had given to him last Christmas) around his neck and turning his coat collar up.

He sighed into the stillness of his office and put his head between his arms and onto the mahogany desk, wondering what would happen now that Sherlock had that particular piece of information.

And as for Anthea...

Well...

If you happened to look outside the door of Mycroft's office, into his assistant's smaller cubicle down the small corridor, you would see a shell-shocked Anthea, gripping the sleeve of her blazer tightly after hearing this revelation, tears silently rolling down her face.

* * *

 _A/N: If anyone's confused, this takes place right after Sherlock and John meet, like the night that they meet at Bart's. For me, Anthea has been Mycroft's assistant for about two years or so._

 _Please leave a review down there to let me know if this was all right!_

 _Maia_


	2. Red Roses

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of_ Sherlock, _which is the wonderful creation of Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss._

* * *

 **Unrequited Love: Part II**

 _ **Red Roses**_

Anthea Evans (of course, that was an alias for work) sat in the cab, still slightly stupefied at what she had overheard yesterday. Granted, she shouldn't have been eavesdropping in the first place, but it was her job to keep on top of her boss' duties, and the conversation had sounded extremely interesting at the beginning.

She'd never heard that much about Mycroft's younger brother; William Sherlock Scott Holmes, until about two years ago. She had been watching the cameras that Mycroft had placed throughout various locations in England, and was nearly falling asleep from the sheer boredom and nothingness. That changed when she caught sight of a curly haired young man leave his housing and travel to a drug den, which was very much out of the ordinary. She accompanied Mycroft to the location and watched him come out, a broken man.

It was she, Anthea, who had taken care of and watched over Mycroft Holmes.

A year or so later, Anthea informed Mycroft that his brother was in rehab. Three months had passed when they found out that he was clean. Fast forward three more months when Mycroft informed his assistant that Sherlock Holmes was now beginning a career as a 'consulting detective, the only one in the world'. He was so proud that he had turned to a new path; one which wouldn't leave his mind to do dangerous things and make him think and extend his capabilities.

Now, another three months after learning the most recent news relating to the younger Holmes, he was back, with a possible – daresay _probable_ \- flatmate.

Truth be told, Anthea was glad that he had found John Watson; according to her research online, he was a doctor. Searching deeper into classified governmental files found that he had been invalidated from Afghanistan, where he had served the army as a doctor and had reached the rank of captain. There, he was shot into the shoulder and returned to London, where he seemed to be facing post-traumatic stress disorder, a psychosomatic limp in his right leg, and a tremor in one hand. Anthea didn't have the great talent of 'people-reading' that Mycroft had, but the little information written on Doctor Watson's blog and elsewhere seemed to be the perfect balance for Sherlock: one who was highly capable of saving others from harm and one who barely knew how to save himself from the harm he had drowned himself into.

So when the conversation had turned to personal relationships, Anthea had been mildly surprised. After two years of working with Mr. Holmes, she knew that he did not care much for emotions. If genetics worked out properly, she had an innate feeling that Sherlock wasn't a big believer in sentiment. Yet there they sat, two of the greatest minds to have walked upon Britain, casually discussing words that Mr. Holmes would have dismissed as 'frivolous', such as _love, care,_ and _family_.

It was even more shocking to Anthea when Sherlock had suddenly bombarded her boss with questions about his own personal emotions.

 _It's her, isn't it?_ Sherlock had asked.

Barely outside of the office door, Anthea had taken a sharp breath – was Mycroft Holmes seeing someone? Someone that his personal assistant didn't know about? As much as she didn't want to admit it, the thought of Mr. Holmes going out with another woman was slightly sickening to her stomach. She just couldn't picture any other lady hanging onto his arm and keeping him company.

When Sherlock had continued by asking if 'her' was actually 'Anthea', the assistant had stumbled backwards, leaning against the opposite wall for slight support. When Mycroft responded with a 'yes' some time later, Anthea felt like the floor had opened up beneath her feet and swallowed her up, only leaving her neck and head above ground.

And later, in their conversation, Mycroft had said something to his younger brother: something that she wasn't going to forget anytime soon.

 _I cannot have Anthea knowing that I… care for her, for lack of better words._

 _I am always so worried during our missions that something terrible will happen…_

 _…_ _and that I will perpetually push the blame upon myself._

 _It's easier._

Now that she knew the care that had been exuded at random moments was for a reason.

Out of nowhere, Anthea recalled when she had passed the six-month mark of working for Mr. Holmes. As she left the office, she'd caught sight of one of MI5's and Mr. Holmes' agents, Leah. She had leaned against the wall and the two made small talk for a few minutes, until Anthea asked Leah something.

"Say, Leah, how long do Mr. Holmes' employees last?"

The red-haired agent had barked out a laugh. "Not counting his agents? I reckon that his secretaries or assistants," here, she wiggled her eyebrows at Anthea, who slapped Leah's hand, "go for about a month, maybe two. He usually treats 'em pretty damn nasty, too. Why'd you ask?"

"Nothing," she had replied, shaking her curls out of her face.

"How long have _you_ worked for Holmes?"

"'Bout six months now."

Leah had let out a long, low whistle. "He must like you _loads_."

Now that Anthea thought about it, he was quite kind to her, even dropping flowers on her desk in the mornings if she accomplished something he particularly wanted. They were all sorts of flowers: tulips, lilies, orchids, petunias. She thought it was something that _all_ bosses did, but she never saw gifts on Leah or other agents' desk. Even when she worked as a secretary for a business man, no tokens were dropped on the desk.

Yet Mr. Holmes had seemed to exude some kind of affection specifically towards her. Anthea never questioned it (in fact, she never questioned any of his quirks) and never understood _why_.

But now she knew.

He had cared for her more than he needed to.

And though she shouldn't have thought this, she felt this warm, bubbly sort of happiness fill her body up: the simple thought that someone cared for her gave her slightly giddy bubbles.

So when she walked into the Diogenes Club with a grin and settled herself into her small cubicle, she was a little surprised to see beautifully arranged flowers sitting in an intricate glass vase on her desk, next to a note in Mr. Holmes' handwriting.

The flowers were red roses.

Her smile increased.

* * *

 _And that, my friends, concludes "Unrequited Love". Except, you know, it's not that unrequited anymore, but that's beyond the point._

 _If anyone is confused as to why_ roses _in particular would make Anthea happy, remember that roses are typically associated with love and affection._

 _Thank you to the two guests who left reviews on the previous chapter! I actually hadn't planned on creating a second part, but the reviews encouraged me to write one. It was really fun to write it from Anthea's point of view._

 _Please leave a review or a favorite/follow!_

 _~Maia_


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